


Can You Hear the Drumming?

by AnthonyKing



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Cardverse, Consensual Underage Sex, Dubious Consent, Executionbait?, Jailbait Arthur, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnthonyKing/pseuds/AnthonyKing
Summary: Many were convinced the cancer plaguing the Kingdom of Spades was rooted in the old monarchy, and they were itching for change, for a new, fresh monarchy to take the old ones place, cut the cancer off before it spread too far.That change was given form through the Crown Prince, as shortly after his birth, Arthur had been marked as the next Queen. All the rebels needed was a King to take his or her rightful place at his side.It was an enviable place, admittedly, especially now that the Prince — who had pushed him against a wall in the more quiet part of the castle — currently had Alfred’s entire cock down his throat.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	Can You Hear the Drumming?

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur is 16 and Alfred is 25

Alfred had never believed in love at first sight, or soulmates, or any of the sappy stories his mother would no doubt fawn endlessly over. After all, his parents’ meeting had been no less than a fateful one; one they would never let any of their twin boys ever forget. Still, Alfred never found himself returning the enthusiasm, making family dinners rather awkward whenever the topic was brought up.

Yet, when the young Crown Prince of Spades locked eyes with him and spoke his name with a kind of maturity and interest not resigned for a boy his age, Alfred could not help to think it as fate.

Alfred had been summoned to the castle as one of several proud Generals serving the Spadian army for a routine check-up of sorts, the kind officially meant to survey the state of the forces, while in actuality serving as a thinly veiled test of their loyalty to the King.

The rebels had been _oh so_ active lately. It really was no wonder the King wanted to check up on his only remaining loyalties; loyal only in the sense that treachery would be considered treason and would be punished _accordingly_. So naturally, Alfred put on his most charming character, aiming to please the King with his wit and intelligence.

The young Prince was his only son, as the darling Queen had lost her life to give the Prince his, and _oh_ how he _embodied_ her greatest qualities. Alfred could see her shine through the Prince like a great fiery beacon as he bowed to him. When he rose back up, the Prince was still looking at him, with something akin to mirth in his eyes. Holding his gaze for longer than was appropriate for a man of his standing, Alfred couldn’t help the slight smirk that graced his features.

It was no secret that the Prince was handsome, _gorgeous_ even, with his golden blond hair and precious green eyes, both inherited from his mother. His pale complexion shone with grace and poise like the kind of royals that went down in the eternal books of history; the kind the people could sing and rejoice over for generations, spinning tales about their gracefulness and passing them down their lineage so their greatness could live on long after they left this plane to return to the Stocks.

Because Prince Arthur, unlike his _father_ , was not a greedy, self-entered, thieving, _coward_ of a man who would run his kingdom to the ground as long as it benefitted himself.

Whispers of rebellions and of overthrowing the current monarchy had grown from merely whispers to terrible amalgamations that threatened to pose a direct challenge to the monarchy, or more specifically, the King. The young Prince was certainly popular among the people, reminding them of their beloved late Queen and her blooming generosity; generosity which had rotted and died along with her, leaving the King a bitter, hateful man, uncaring of the plights and ails of the people he swore to serve.

Many were convinced the cancer plaguing the Kingdom of Spades was rooted in the old monarchy, and they were itching for change, for a new, fresh monarchy to take the old ones place, cut the cancer off before it spread _too far_.

That change was given form through the Crown Prince, as shortly after his birth, Arthur had been marked as the next Queen. All the rebels needed was a King to take his or her rightful place at his side.

It was an enviable place, admittedly, especially now that the Prince — who had pushed him against a wall in the more _quiet_ part of the castle — currently had Alfred’s entire cock down his throat.

“Y—your Majesty—! I— This is _not_ appropriate—! Ah, _Fuck—!”_

He never did find out where the young Prince learned how to do _that,_ but he suspects some of his fellow court-mates had something to do with it. Nevertheless he wasn’t complaining, opting to tangle his fingers in those gorgeous blond locks as opposed toattempting to push him off, since it seemed the Prince was not letting him go anytime soon.

“ _Goddess, you’re good_ …”

He suspects in hindsight that Arthur’s _thing_ for praise may have started with his own pleasure-ridden, throwaway comment, as Arthur’s movements suddenly became even rougher, even faster, like he was trying to prove himself to the General he had sexually assaulted in an empty hallway.

Powerless against the Prince’s expert tongue, — which he previously thought was only eloquent at _speaking_ — he came harder than he had in a _long_ time, with an embarrassingly loud moan to boot.

The Prince, after dutifully lapping everything up, rose back to his feet with an expectant look Alfred didn’t know how to respond to. After a beat of silence, he gave an exasperated sigh, befitting not his age but definitely his position.

“North side, left balcony. Climb up after dark and I'll leave the door unlocked for you,” he spoke, more of an order than a request. “If you want _more_ that is…”

The Prince walked off with a wink, with a gentle swish in his steps, leaving the shell-shocked General behind to gather his wits and ponder his request.

* * *

Getting to the Prince’s balcony had been shockingly easy; if you can consider having to hop three fences, one wall and several patrolling guards _easy_. Getting close to the castle walls had been the hardest part, but now that Alfred was standing under the shade of the royal balcony, he couldn’t help the surge of anger that flamed his ascent up the lily-vines to his majesties bed chambers.

This was the _Crown Prince_ , for Goddess sake. Who made it this easy to climb straight up?

He silently cursed whom-ever grew the darned vines he was currently climbing — with only _minor_ difficulty — yet, he was thankful. It sure made his life a lot easier.

If he was King, he would’ve had them all burned to the ground. No one should be allowed the access he was currently basking in.

Grabbing the ledge with one arm while keeping steady with the other, he hoisted himself up to the balcony, boots clicking quietly on the smooth stone flooring as he landed. With one last check around to make sure no guards bore witness to his actions, he quietly walked to the balcony doors, which the Prince had promised to leave unlocked for him.

True to his word, the left-most door opened with a quiet click, allowing Alfred entrance into the castle, and to the Prince himself, who was sprawled on the king-seized bed, greeting Alfred with a sly smirk as he clapped the book in his hand shut in favour of motioning with his hand for Alfred to enter.

And enter he did.

* * *

Sex with the young Prince turned to a nightly occurrence for the duration of Alfred’s stay at the castle, with none inside the castle’s walls being any wiser to the fact that their young Prince was getting fucked into his royal mattress by a man almost ten years his senior.

It _felt_ wrong — _it was wrong —_ yet every time the young Prince willingly got on his hands and knees, or back or stomach or _any position_ Alfred ordered him to, he found himself unwilling to resist, mounting his body with vigour and experience, which Arthur would return in kind with every push back against his thrusts, and with every moan and whine for more as he took Alfred’s cock to the hilt like he was born for it.

And Arthur fucking _loved it._

The Prince, it seemed, was horridly attention starved. Not in the sense of visual attention, because Goddess forbid he got more than enough of that. He was more starved for touch, for genuine _appreciation_ that went beyond the position he was born into, starved for words that were not spoken with ulterior motives, and gestures preformed out of sincerity. Somewhere along the way, Alfred had become catalyst for his need to be praised, which he eagerly provided in _spades_ every time they got together.

Calling Arthur a _good boy_ had yielded the most effective results. If he’d had a tail, Alfred was sure it would wag like crazy every time he said it, as Arthur’s eyes would light up like the night sky, brimming with hope and child-like enthusiasm as he looked expectantly at Alfred, ready to follow any command he spoke in hopes of hearing it again.

Any praise at all seemed to have an effect on Arthur, as Alfred had discovered the time he let Arthur top, and his pleasure-ridden brain had off-handedly told him _you’re taking my cock_ so _well_ , which had made Arthur tense around him so hard he almost came right then and there, barely catching the Prince as he nearly bounced off his lap when he failed to return Alfred’s bucking hips.

His theory was confirmed when he — bent over the Prince, both wrists trapped in Alfred’s hand — groaned into his ear; _so nice and wet for me, aren’t you_? Arthur had moaned obscenely loud then, gripping Alfred like his body didn’t want to let go of his cock, turning soft and pliant and _willing_ , looking up expectantly with his big precious eyes as he panted for more.

And so, every night, Alfred would slip into the Prince’s bed chambers, make him see the stars he was praising him to, without the guilt or bad conscience he assumed would be weighing on him by now. Making love to the Prince while giving him the love he would otherwise never receive seemed like a good trade-off.

And watching his own cum drip out of the Prince’s thoroughly fucked, red-ringed pussy was nothing short of a bonus.

Alfred would later — _much later_ — learn that, for all his pristine habits and carefully constructed life, Arthur was _terrible_ at keeping track of his cycle.

* * *

During the course of Alfred’s stay at the Spadian castle, he had quickly gotten used to descending down gold-trimmed stairs every morning — with only _minor_ pelvis and back-strain — for a truly royal breakfast, where servings were larger than any meal Alfred had ever eaten in his life. The King was insistent on eating with his Generals by his side, comforted by the ass-kissing they — Alfred would only _occasionally_ join them —would lavish him in.

And every now and then, the young Prince would join them as well.

Arthur was looking a little worse for wear these days, that much was obvious, but he also looked… _happier_ , like the burden he carried on his shoulders had levitated somewhat. Yet, dark circles lined his under-eyes on the earlier occasions, when his servants hadn’t yet caked him in makeup, hiding every imperfection that had no place on the Prince’s features, something Alfred found strange, as he hadn’t managed to locate any of said imperfections.

The Prince would enter the grand dining hall, either in the middle of breakfast or to the sound of the scraping chairs of the quick eaters, always with a slight limp and slow, deliberate steps. He would take his seat next to his father, and shamelessly eye Alfred from across the table while he ate his breakfast. And Alfred would eye him right back, sharing in their little secret with stolen glances and mirth-filled smiles.

It was during one of those breakfast servings that the King had struck the Prince across the face.

Alfred couldn’t for the life of him remember the reason _why_ the King had done it, at _breakfast_ , and in front of _all_ his Generals no less _;_ all he could remember was the dull thud of the Prince landing on the floor and how much he fought to keep himself from springing up from his chair to comfort him.

The Prince had run out of the room shortly after, and breakfast went on as usual for everyone present. Expect for Alfred, who could barely bring his fork from the plate to his mouth through the tremble in his hands.

However, at midday, the little spat at breakfast had developed into a potential catastrophe.

The Crown Prince was no where to be found.

The regular hustle and bustle of the castle had ascended to a full blown _frenzy_ , with servants, maids and guards alike searching every square inch of the castle’s interior for any sign of the Prince. The King had joined the search, even more frantic than the Prince’s closest servants from what little Alfred had witnessed of it.Whether his sudden frenzy was born of guilt or the potential end of his bloodline in the Spadian monarchy, Alfred couldn’t be sure. Regardless, he was glad to see some semblance of the care he expected a father to feel for his _own son_.

Once it became apparent that the Prince was no where _inside_ the castle, the search turned outwards, with soldiers scouring the vast castle grounds in groups of three, armed with firm orders to _immediately_ report to their officers when they located the Prince, which admittedly, was easier said than done.

Alfred, never one to shy away from standing with his men on the battlefield, joined the search for the young Prince as well, though his reasons were more on the personal side.

He, along with two of his men, had taken to searching through the outskirts of the Glacial Woods, located to the North of the castle and stretching from the heart of Spades to the icy mountains of Clubs. A border wall cut through the edge of the forest, preventing any unwelcome visitors from waltzing into the castle grounds. Yet, as he and several other Generals had been informed, the wall had proven to be no challenge for the young Prince, who had long ago learned from his court-mates how to easily slip through and into the darkened woods.

Something in his gut told him that he would find Arthur here. It seemed like the kind of place he would find comfort in; secluded, quiet and beautiful, much like the young Prince himself.

His party was not the only one searching through the thickened woods, as several calls of “ _your majesty!” c_ ould be heard over the snapping of twigs and rustling of bushes. A couple of meters to his right, he could make out Officer Bayholt, a brilliant soldier and trustworthy man, and to his right, Private McCoy, another fine young man in his service.

They came upon a clearing, with a glittering pond encircled by low-hanging, cotton trees. Through the break in the foliage, Alfred could see the afternoon yellows starting to colour the sky. They would be running out of daylight soon, and all hope of finding the Prince would disappear with the last rays of the spring sun.

Alfred would later chuck it up to fate that the very next thing he saw, was a very familiar head of golden blond hair, peeking out from between the thicket of some rose bushes.

Arthur must have heard him coming, and it wasn’t all that surprising really. The calls of “ _your majesty!”_ could probably be heard ringing through to the other kingdoms as well, considering how many soldiers were roaming the castle grounds and outskirts looking for their young Prince. And now, he was within Alfred’s grasp.

“Bayholt! McCoy!”

His calls made Arthur stiffen and look up from where he had been pressing his face into his knees, snapping his head in Alfred’s direction with wide eyes as he approached the young monarch. Shoving his hand into the thicket of the bush, Alfred gently shifted the branches aside, not bothered by the spiky thorns which were kept at bay by the thickness of his jacket.

Alfred knelt down to the Prince’s eye-level, squinting his eyes at the ugly, purple bruise on the side of his face with distain as he heard his soldiers come running up behind him, both lighting up at the sight of their Prince.

“McCoy, call off the search. Bayholt, run ahead and let the King know the Prince is in good health and will be brought back to the castle.”

Turning back around to the sound of _Yes, Sir!_ and to their retreating footsteps, Alfred found that that the Prince had re-buried his face in his knees, which he had pulled even closer to his chest, like he was trying to hide from the reality of the situation. Deciding to give the Prince some space, Alfred stayed on his knees, opting to take note of his appearance instead.

Alfred’s thick jacket had protected him from the thorns of the rose bushes, but Arthur was not as lucky, dressed as he still was in his thin, indoor attire, which had suffered greatly at the hands of the sharp thorns. Several cuts lined his forearms and knees, dried blood lining the neat edges of the cuts in his royal getup, even as the wounds had healed over long ago.

Alfred, despite himself, couldn’t help the tired smile that graced his features, momentarily shifting into surprise as the Prince boldly declared that _if you want me back, you’re gonna have to carry me,_ to which Alfred chuckled and replied: _of course, Your Majesty,_ without missing a single beat.

And so he did, with one arm under the Prince’s knees and the other keeping him steady with a hand across his back; he carried him, holding him securely against his chest as the Prince wrapped his arms around the General’s neck and pressed his face into it for good measure as well. And Alfred kept carrying him, back out through the thicket and into the brightly lit courtyard, where the King — along with the entire castle staff, it seemed — was anxiously waiting for them.

Alfred made a mental note to give both McCoy and Bayholt extra days off come the holidays. Hard work should always be repaid in kind, after all.

It must have been quite the sight; young Spadian General _runner-up_ Jones, carrying the dirt-covered, scratched up future Queen of Spades bridal style in his arms, who — even at the gentle coaxing of his most beloved staff members — refused to let go of the General. The King made no attempt to talk to his son, but Alfred could feel the death-glares directed his way without having to look away from the boy nestled in his arms.

He’d been directed to the castle’s infirmary with the King and several staff members in tow, at the order of the King himself, even as Arthur’s injuries were minor, he was still _injured_ , which was not a state befitting of the Crown Prince. And thus, as a protective measure, he had been sent to the infirmary for a thorough check-up to ensure the well-being of one half of the future monarchy.

Yet, Arthur stayed adamant about not letting him go.

Fuelled by the cocky feeling rising in his chest, he’d leaned in close to the Prince, whispering comforting affirmations in his ear; _you’re being so brave_ and _I’ll stay with you the entire time if that’s your wish_ , whispered so quietly that the other occupants in the room could only hear the deep rumble in his chest to the sight of the Prince _finally_ lifting his head from the General’s neck, only to stare directly into Alfred’s eyes.

Alfred _revelled_ in the glory of the shocked expressions and hesitant movement of his onlookers as he slowly lowered the Prince to his feet and gently coaxed him towards the royal paediatrician, speaking in that same deep rumble which the Prince hesitantly followed without a single retort.

From the corner of his eye, Alfred could see how tightly the King was clenching his fists, and almost shook with the strain of having to keep a self-satisfied smirk off his face.

That night, as Alfred slipped through the Prince’s balcony as usual, he found the Prince bandaged up and dressed in his sleeping attire, reading a book in the dim candle-light. His expression remained neutral the entire time Alfred dressed down to his undergarments, watching with anticipation as he blew out the candle by the bedside.

Settled under the covers, with the little Prince’s sleeping form on top of him, Alfred couldn’t help the fondness with which he gently rubbed circles into his lower back, feeling closer to Arthur than he ever had pressed bare skin to skin.

And strangest of all; he found that he didn’t much mind.

* * *

What was initially intended as a routine check up, gradually turned to a permanent stay at the castle. Several attempted uprisings had seemingly spooked the King into permanently staging several forces at his castle for his own protection — including Alfred’s men.

His soldiers were unhappy with their new positions as cannon fodder for the King, which had in turn made an enemy of the very people they had sworn to protect. Alfred felt for them, but was ultimately powerless to refuse a direct order from the King, lest he wished to lose his head, which he very much preferred to keep attached to his shoulders.

Furthermore, his stay had been rather enjoyable so far. Eating lavishly in gold-clad halls during the day, and burying himself balls-deep in the Crown Prince during the night. All in all, it wasn’t half bad, considering the less-than lavish circumstances of his upbringing.

Circumstances which eventually landed him in the crosshairs of the rebellion recruiters.

The Spadian countrysides were notorious for being dirt poor — no pun intended. Several floods and icy winters wreaked havoc on the agricultural yield of the region, dooming the once prosperous region to one of the poorest in Spades. And in the middle of all that, Alfred and his twin brother had been born.

Their parents toiled for years with little regard to their own well-being to provide their sons an opportunity for a better life, an opportunity they hoped one day would be repaid back to them in kind.

Alfred was determined not to let their efforts go to waste, and to provide his parents rest in their final decades together.

His subsequent rise through the ranks of the Spadian Army had seemingly caught the attention of the rebels, as Alfred landed the title of General at the ripe-old age of twenty-five.

The youngest General in Spadian history, or so he’d been told. Nevertheless, it made his parents _very_ proud. If only they knew what Alfred was utilising his position for, they would definitely be far less impressed, but that’s neither here nor there.

Because Alfred wanted to see the old monarchy burn to the ground as much — potentially _more_ — as his fellow rebels.

Especially after the mark of the future King bloomed just below his right hip.

* * *

Alfred came to expect one of two scenarios whenever he climbed up to the Prince’s balcony after dark; the most common one, where Arthur would greet him with his already naked body shining in the dim candle light, smirking with boundless enthusiasm and mirth, which Alfred would return in kind by pounding his royal body into the mattress.

Then there was the _other_ scenario, as his arrival was always _anticipated_ , but — at times — with different _expectations_.

It was no secret that the Old King was _not_ a kind man, with many would describing him as a monster dressed in royal garb, ready to spew fire and poison to anyone within his field of _hatred_.

And the one who bore most of the brunt, was Arthur.

On those nights, he would enter the dark chambers not to the “come-hither” smirk on a gorgeous face, but to the sound of near-silent sobs, coming from the small figure on the bed wrapped tightly in royal blue comforters. Alfred’s previously excited smile would turn soft, softer than he was willing to admit, yet one that felt more natural than any beaming smile he sent to his soldiers to encourage them, or to comfort the very real threat the Old King was feeling at any given moment, or the one he gave to Arthur just before he would slip out through his balcony doors and back into the night.

And he would keep smiling his dumb, soft smile as he slipped off his shoes and jacket, leaving his shirt on, even as it would normally come off at this point in their “encounters”.

He had gotten into the habit of leaving his trousers on, not letting Arthur find out about the mark on his hip, the mark that told of his right to rule by the future Queen’s side as his King, as he had decided some time ago to leave Arthur completely out of the loop, about _everything._

He didn’t want the young Prince to do anything… _reckless_.

For despite all the brunt the young Prince suffered at the hands of his father, he _still_ loved the man, which only made Alfred’s resolve to see him indisposed of even stronger.

So, on those nights, he would slip under the comforters and slowly scoot up to the Prince, who would throw away the pillow he’d be pressing to his chest in favour of settling right into Alfred’s open arms. And he would cry — sob even — right into the General’s chest, and Alfred would press him even closer to himself and gently coo at the sobbing Prince with comforting affirmations, whispered quietly into the non-existent space between them.

In those moments, as Arthur’s sobs echoed in his ears and his tears stained his dress-shirt, Alfred could really feel how _young_ the Prince was, how _heavy_ the weight of the kingdom was on his shoulders, and how much his father truly _despised_ him for the death of his mother, a death which was out of his — of _anyone’s_ — control.

And in those moments, all Alfred could do was soothe him, let him bear his little heart out until there were no more tears left to cry, and Alfred held him, with one hand on the back of his head and the other running up and down his back, occasionally rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder-blades and whisper promises of _I’ll protect you, from now on; I’ll protect you_ through his golden blond locks.

And sometimes it would work; the tears would stop, his breaths would even out, and Alfred would keep holding him, nosing his hair and press the little Prince closer to his chest. And they would stay like that, until Arthur’s breathing slowed down and his grip went slack, and still Alfred would keep him pressed to his chest.

Other times, it would only make the Prince sob harder, grip him tighter, press himself impossibly closer against him and _Alfred_ , for all his achievements and triumphs, never felt as powerless as he would feel in those moments.

It was during one of those bad, _bad_ nights where the King had lost his temper once again, and the Prince’s wracking sobs shook his entire body and drenched Alfred’s shirt in batch after batch of tears, that he had felt the barely noticeable bump in Arthur’s abdomen press against his own.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to have the second part out as soon as I can, so stay tuned :)
> 
> Trying out a new style of writing, so do let me know if you like it <3


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